The Un-Vasectomy

In 2007 I had my vasectomy.

It was such a fantastic experience that I wrote this book about it:

By “fantastic experience” I mean, “not fantastic at all.” I mean, it wasn’t terrible, but I would certainly rather go to a Chinese-food buffet restaurant with no sneeze guards before I’d do it again.

I had two kids at the time and that was enough. Especially after my first daughter was colicky for the first year, which really turned me off to the prospect of having another. A colicky child is like listening to Gilbert Godfried yell at you for 24 hours every day.

But, being gluttons for punishment, we said “Why not,” had a second child, and then I decided to have my testicles operated on. There would be no more mini-me’s running around.

Then I got divorced, remarried, and inherited two step-children. Like Jeff Goldblum says in Jurassic Park: “Nature finds a way.”

But this story is about one of my coworkers. I will call him, Kevvin. His actual name is Kevin, but I told him to hide his true identity that I would spell it with two v’s.

Ah, shit.

Okay, anyway, since the Covid pandemic started, we have all been working from home. This, in and of itself, is a reason to support the vasectomy argument. If you’ve stayed home with kids for the last two years, between homeschooling and breaks and dinners and homework, there should be no doubt in your mind that the next investment you make should be in some sort of birth control company.

Kids are awful.

Our work-from-home schedule incorporated, from our department heads, a “Beer-Thirty” every Thursday. This meant that we would all stop working every Thursday at 4:30, join a Zoom session, drink beer and just randomly discuss stuff. I can tell you that, as a person who hates other people on a molecular level, that this has been an amazing experience.

I truly bond with my coworkers now. I listen to their stories. I understand them.

Well, at least I thought I did.

In comes Kevvin.

The last Beer-Thirty I attended ended, as usual, with me straggling around with whoever else hadn’t left yet. In this case, it was me, Mikke (see what I did there?) and Kevvin. With the conversation winding down, Kevvin dropped the news.

“Hey,” he said. “I don’t think I told you, but my wife is having a baby next month.”

“OHMYGOD congratulations!” I said, not really meaning it. In my head, I was thinking wtf why but I’m not rude to people’s faces. I save that stuff for behind their back.

“Thank you,” he said.

“How many will that be?” I asked.

“This will be our third.”

“Oh, man. Three?” I replied, “Time for-”

I made the scissor motion with my fingers. The scissor motion is globally known as the sign language for vasectomy. It’s also the sign language for cutting things with scissors, but in this context it meant vasectomy.

“That’s the thing,” he said. “I had one.”

My jaw dropped. My immediate thought was that his wife was banging someone else and OHMYGOD NEXT WEEK’S BEER-THIRTY IS GOING TO BE OFF THE HOOK WHEN I TELL EVERYONE THIS.

“But,” he continued, “I had it reversed.”

My jaw dropped even further. It crashed through my floor and landed in my garage next to 43 NERF guns that my kids no longer play with and didn’t sell in my last yard sale.

I could only muster one question:

“Why?”

It was, to me, unfathomable. Why would you reverse a vasectomy? It’s like winning the lottery but then deciding to keep working. I could not wrap my head around it.

“Well,” he explained, “When the pandemic hit, and my family was in lockdown, my wife and I sat down in our living room one day and looked around. We thought, ‘Well, this is it. This is our legacy. This is who will fill our house from this day forward.’ And we thought, you know, maybe the home could use just one more. So we decided to have my vasectomy reversed and try again.”

I sat there, staring at my Zoom screen with my Family Guy background of Peter fighting a chicken looming behind me, dumbfounded. A few seconds later, I responded.

“So, you thought ‘What better world to bring forth another child, than one in the midst of a global pandemic?’” I asked.

Kevvin blinked.

“Okay,” he said. “That’s actually a pretty good point.”

Mikke, my other coworker chimed in.

“Well,” Mikke said, “In his defense, this is what people did back in the times of biblical plagues to ensure the survival of the species. They did it in the 50s as well.”

“The 50s? Mikke I think you’ve had enough Beer-Thirty beer. Also, Kevvin, you do you. Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” Kevvin said. “We’re really happy and looking forward to it.”

“That’s all that matters,” I said.

The Zoom call ended shortly after because I told them that I needed to write this down while it was still fresh in my mind. I also needed to go make dinner for my four kids who would, eventually, complain about it because that’s what kids do.

I’ll check back in on Kevvin when he has his fourth.

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Previously Published on medium

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